


Save the Dream

by LullabyKnell



Series: Star Wars Episode LK [5]
Category: Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Birth, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Giving Birth, Heavy Angst, Introspection, Magical Tattoos, Obi-Wan Needs a Hug, POV Bail Organa, POV Beru Whitesun, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi, Universe Alteration, magical realism elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell
Summary: Live long enough and you see the same Dreams in different people.An AU where rare individuals are marked and burdened with Dreams, manifestations of fixed ambitions that travel from generation to generation and demand to be realized. Some things stay the same, but others go very differently.





	1. dying dream I

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I'm going to write Star Wars fic with canon characters that isn't magical and weird as hell. Today is not that day. 
> 
> So this was largely inspired by Rogue One, especially Saw's line from which this fic's title was taken, which has been stuck in my head for weeks now. It's also largely inspired by Magical Realism fics and Soulmarks AUs. It's extremely handwavey and very magic without calling it magic, so y'know, don't look too closely into anything. 
> 
> If you want an explanation for this universe, it's below. If you don't care and just want to get started, you can do that too. I imagine this universe might be interesting to work out as you read. (These are most of the basic general rules I've come up with so far. There may be some exceptions and this may be subject to change as this 'verse develops.) 
> 
> Basically, sometimes people have Dreams, which means they have some sort of dream/desire/goal that physically manifests over their heart as colorful markings - markings which can spread over their skin depending on how they think they're doing in achieving their Dream and how they intend to achieve their Dream. These people are called Dreamers and they are very rare. Especially influential people with very big Dreams. 
> 
> Dreams always have a particular phrase attached to them, and you know it when you hear it because their Dreamers say them in a striking, kind of bone-chilling way. It can take Dreamers days or years to fully learn their words, which seem to develop and bubble out of their chest with time and experiences. Dreams can appear at any age and any time, but usually take a long time to develop and spread and be understood by their Dreamer. 
> 
> The end goal is for Dreamers to Realize their Dream, which means that the Dreamers clearly and without doubt consider their Dream having come true. If they remain satisfied, they're good, but sometimes Dreams continue with new details and goals. Dreamers even have some special abilities (not Force abilities), which are mainly used to influence people and Realize Dreams, but some Dreamers are never satisfied. Some Dreams are never fully Realized. 
> 
> If a Dreamer loses all hope in their Dream (like if their Dream becomes impossible), the Dream will fade from their skin entirely. It's unheard of that any Dreamer survives this. If the Dream fades from them and "dies", so do they. 
> 
> You'll see the same Dreams in different people. It's not at all uncommon for people to share Dreams, especially from parent to child or mentor to apprentice. Two Dreamers (or more) can even have the same Dream at the same time. They'll probably, however, have different interpretations of the Dream and its words.

“You’re a Dreamer,” Obi-Wan breathes, in awe and horror, as some of Padmé’s clothes came free at the medicenter droid’s hands.

 Padmé is in the middle of a high and painful gasp, struggling through yet another contraction, and she squeezes his hand tightly. It’s uncertain if his words play any part in this reaction. Their hands are trembling fiercely together, shaking with the pain and loss and horror of what had happened.

 They have held together since Obi-Wan returned to Padmé, burned and strangled and feeling as though he shattered into a million pieces, and Padmé in the same state of brokenness and bruises. One of them had reached out, maybe both of them, and they hadn’t let go since. By now, it’s hard to know where Obi-Wan Kenobi ends and where Padmé Amidala Naberrie begins. They’re in too many pieces to ever pick up, he thinks, and so much of them has been lost forever.

 They hold each other as though they’re the only real things in the universe.

 Obi-Wan’s eyes trace the beautiful golden spirals and splashes around Padmé’s toes that all the way up her legs, disappearing up under the cloth bunched at her hips. The markings look as though someone has managed to weave molten gold. Liquid jewelry set into skin. All beads and lace and ropes. The markings are as elaborate and fine as any costume Padmé wore as queen or senator, if not far more beautiful. There is no trace of them above mid-chest or her arms, from what he can see, but the rest of her has been nearly entirely covered by the markings.

 Nearly consumed and yet Obi-Wan didn’t know that Padmé is a Dreamer. He’s known her so long, considered her one of his closest and dearest friends, and loved her. Not a love so intense and shattering as the one he felt for their shared lost love, but a love so long that steady that it feels painful – like a blast to the lungs, still now burning – to think that he didn’t know she carried a Dream.

 “Didn’t… didn’t think… it mattered,” Padmé says, on the hitched end of a sob.

 Obi-Wan makes a noise that tries to be a laugh, but it too hitches on a sob. “Of course not,” he assures her. “Of course, it changes nothing.”

 He feels ashamed that he never once suspected, but how was he to know? The Jedi Order largely does not value Dreams and Padmé seemed to be of a similar philosophy, remarking once or twice that Dreams should not have a bearing on doing and listening to what was good and right and true. He never considered it. Padmé has hid this well and perhaps for good reason, as outed Dreamers have suffered assassinations and terrible accidents in recent years – without doubt, Obi-Wan sees in hindsight, at the hands of the Sith – and Dreamers never dare well in war besides.

 It still hurts to think that Padmé never trusted him enough to share her Dream. Betrayal and horror are too recent and have left his shattered chest too wide open for more hidden things and lies not to burn at him. No matter how reasonable or well-meaning.

 How has he been so blind? To everything?

 Besides, Padmé’s Dream really might not have changed anything, if she had been outed and survived. Palpatine – _Darth Sidious, the Emperor_ – is too powerful, too cunning, and too cruel. Perhaps, even if Padmé’s ornate and carefully crafted outfits bared her Dream with pride and she wielded her status as a Dreamer like a weapon, they were always going to end up here.

  _Mere Dreams change nothing,_ he has heard it said by those of the Jedi Order inclined to be kinder to the idea of Dreams. _It is always… and only… what you do with them._

 It’s a saying he has always agreed with in the past.

 Now, Obi-Wan cannot help but stare at the shimmering gold marking over Padmé’s skin, like water and molten metal woven into intricate spirals and patterns by the Force and set into a person. Obi-Wan has met more Dreamers than most ever would, but each Dream is unique and he has never seen this one or its like before. It appeared duller than it should be, worryingly so, and it was so terribly complicated and enormous. By the glint of gold at the bottom of Padmé’s now opened collar and what Obi-Wan can see of her skin, it’s apparently consumed her body from the heart down.

 The enormity of Padmé’s Dream sends a shudder through Obi-Wan’s soul. Dreamers consumed by their Dream are… dangerous… and Dreaming Jedi gone Dark are… _were_ held up frequently as an argument for serenity and detachment and moving beyond such temptation as Dreams. Obi-Wan has seen a few consumed Dreamers over his lifetime and, while not all have been bad encounters, the most recent…

_(“You turned her against me!”)_

_(“You have done that yourself!”)_

 Obi-Wan should have paid more attention, he knows. He knows now. He should have done something; he should have done _anything_ besides hold back and wait and move on like the coward he is. But no, he told himself that Anakin was a _Jedi,_ the Anakin was the _Chosen One,_ and that Anakin was more than capable of controlling and moving beyond his Dream.

 It was war, went the reasoning time and time again, and all those little things could always wait for later. Because it was war, later always seemed to slip slowly into never.

  _(“You will not take her from me.”)_

_(“Your anger and your lust for power have already done that.”)_

 Padmé shrieks, followed by an agonized moan, and Obi-Wan has by now nearly lost all feeling in his fingers. It hurt, of course, but nothing compared to the waves of pain rolling off Padmé. And what was a little more agony? Perhaps Padmé can, if he asks, reached straight into his split, shattered chest and strangle the terrible burning feeling there.

 “Obi,” Padmé sobs. “It… is it supposed to h-hurt this m-much?”

 The medical droid beside them launches into statistics on pregnancy and birth for human females, but Padmé only has glassy eyes for Obi-Wan. He stared back, helpless and shattered and burning alive. He can feel her agony, bright as a dying star, and… he does not think so. He has witnessed birth before and there is something wrong here, they both know it.

 “I don’t know,” he says, though, because he has never been in so much pain before.

 He has many terrible burns all over his skin, the fires of Mustafar having eaten into every piece of flesh and cloth they touched, and many of them still bite white-hot at him whether he moves or not. He has bruises all over his limbs and back from being thrown about, enough to turn his skin black and blue. Obi-Wan’s throat burns from the large hand that tried to choke him, his lungs stutter through his attempted calm, and his heart feels as though it’s in burning pieces inside his chest.

 Maybe this is just what pain feels like when you’ve had your heart broken and life devastated. Maybe, despite everything he has ever survived, Obi-Wan has overestimated his understanding of suffering.

 Padmé’s hand is tight around his own, so very tight, and he still does not know where Obi-Wan Kenobi ends and where Padmé Amidala Naberrie begins. They’re in a spiraling agony together, the only real anchor keeping each other from an endless fall, and he just doesn’t know.


	2. dying dream II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also rewatched the prequels recently and caught a lot of Feelings. I mean, the movies are still pretty terrible, but the SW fandom's hand-crafted rose-tinted goggles and the mindset of fic-writing doesn't care about THAT. 
> 
> This is still angst.

 “M-my skin _burns,_ ” Padmé whispers.

 For a moment, Obi-Wan is horrified with himself. Fear and shame respond first in him. He immediately tries to collect as many pieces of himself as he can manage, to hold them close and away from Padmé. Has he been projecting his injuries onto her? Projecting his pain?

 “Padmé, I’m-”

 “It’s been b-burning since… since… just before the Em-empire,” Padmé says. She finds strength enough to lift her head a little, staring at him with intense, glassy eyes. “I th-think there’s something wrong with… with my Dream.”

 “Your-!” Obi-Wan turns in alarm, towards the swirling gold pattern.

 “It… it… it b-b _uuuurns…_ ”

 Padmé breaks off into another agonized moan and Obi-Wan stares, wide-eyed, at the Dream over her skin that he turned away from. It’s so dim, he realizes, and growing dimmer. Dreams flickered in brightness, but this one seemed to be fading rapidly, the intricate twists smudging before dulling entirely back into her skin, from her toes and moving up her legs.

  _Disappearing,_ he realizes, horrified, _and dying._

 In the background, the medicenter droid is giving them a spiel on dreams, in between instructing Padmé, and it says nothing that gives Obi-Wan any hope. There are many myths surrounding Dreams and Dreamers – many false or greatly exaggerated – but it is widely agreed that whatever it is that causes a Dream to rapidly shrink or disappear entirely, their Dreamers rarely survive the loss. No one knows why, as there’s no apparent physical reason, but the myth’s rumors widely agreed that heartbreak and even a temporary loss of hope are terribly powerful things.

 Obi-Wan can feel the fear creeping up on him. A coldness moving around in his stomach and up his spine, despite the burning in his chest, and he doesn’t know if he can stand above his fear this time. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never studied Dreams and Dreamers in any sort of detail, even though he clearly should have after gaining his padawan, because Dreams were not the way of the Jedi.

 Would it matter now if he had? The little research on the topic could never agree on anything – too little data argued over by too many different biases – leaving Dreams a mystery that was widely, wildly debated. Perhaps there was once a civilization that understood the rare markings on people’s skins and souls, and all that could be done with them, but that history has either been lost or erased, if it ever existed. Would Obi-Wan be able to make a difference with false myths and hearsay behind him?

_(“Well, then you are lost!”)_

_(“This is the end for you, My Master. I wish it were otherwise.”)_

Obi-Wan has only enough strength to stay at Padmé’s side and hold her hand, trying to give a poor man’s attempt at reassurance and apology. He has failed everything and everyone – again and again and _again_ – and it burns to fail her now, ignorant and helpless in the face of whatever horror is happening to them now. He’s been so blind and thoughtless. Would be arrogant to think now that he kills everything and everyone he touches? How many have died because of his cowardice and ignorance?

 Tears sting against the burn flecks on his face, a crack in his composition, and he doesn’t care. It’s such a little pain against the rest. It doesn’t burn nearly as much as the shame.

 Padmé sobs too, clinging to him, trying to say her own litany of agony and regret. They make a miserable pair together, holding on as though they were the only two real things left in the entire universe. They are in so many pieces and so much pain that it doesn’t seem likely they’ll be able to separate or be whole again.

 “We sh-should have told you,” Padmé said.

 Internally, Obi-Wan agrees because _they should have told him,_ but… they wouldn’t have hidden if they didn’t have their reasons. He’s so blind, so foolish, so trusting, and he’d been even worse before. There’s no way to know, now, what Obi-Wan Kenobi, loyal Jedi and exhausted General, would have done if Anakin and Padmé had come to him with their marriage and their Dreams. Perhaps they were right to hide from him.

 “It’s alright,” Obi-Wan assures her, burning with shame and regret. “I understand. You have nothing to apologize for, but I forgive you.”

  _Forgive_ me. _I have killed my brother. I have killed your husband. I have killed our love._

  _You are dying too and I cannot save you. I have killed you too._

 Padmé can’t have possibly heard those words, but she lifts her head again slightly, prompting Obi-Wan to support her as best he can while the medicenter droid admonishes the both of them. She stares up at him – through him, it seems.

 “I f-forgive you,” she says.

 Obi-Wan feels the words like blast to the lungs.

 “I f-for-give you too,” Padmé says insistently.

 Obi-Wan cannot help but let out a soft cry, clutching at Padmé’s hand nearly as tightly as she held his. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. He silently asked for something he didn’t know how to have – _should not_ have – and received it anyway. Obi-Wan would have begged for her forgiveness if only he deserved it, but he did not, and having it anyway clawed at him.

 “Padmé…”

 “I _do,_ ” she says insistently, again.

 “No-”

 He’s immediately interrupted by Padmé’s sudden scream, loud and agonized beyond description. Padmé’s grip on his hand is nearly unbearable, her skin near soaked-through with sweat, and she’s red-faced and crying through the terrible sound and attack of pain.

 Something is wrong. Obi-Wan would know something is wrong even if several alarm had not switched on and the medicenter droids flurried about them in a very calm sort of panic. Padmé’s golden Dream has faded entirely from her legs, all the intricate swirls gone, and the only part left of it that he can see is the glimmer at the end of her neckline.

 There is a feeling in the Force, in Padmé’s presence, that was not there before. Padmé was already weak and broken-hearted and exhausted, but now there is something almost like an absence, like a tear in the ways of the Force. Some sort of draining, nearly imperceptible, twist.

  _I really have killed you too,_ Obi-Wan thinks, desperate and terrified.

 The medicenter droids try to suggest that Obi-Wan leave the room and wait with their companions, but Obi-Wan won’t be moved and Padmé won’t let go. Her scream ends and she sobs for him not to leave her, and with tear-blinded, he swears he won’t. It feels as though either one of them, the both of them, might break into a million more pieces at any moment, but he won’t leave her too.

 Padmé agrees to the surgery immediately, anything to save her child’s life. It is… terrible. Obi-Wan tries to soothe her, to leech the pain that the droid cannot take, but there is too much of it. Padmé screams and sobs, fading so fast that it feels the surgery won’t be quick enough, and Obi-Wan is helpless to prevent any of it. He does his best, but… that isn’t much.

 “Obi,” Padmé says, at one point.

 “Yes. Yes, I’m here. I’m here,” Obi-Wan assures her.

 Padmé is glassy-eyed and speaks through gritted teeth, but her weakening grip tightens again to pull him closer to her. Obi-Wan leans forward, confused.

 “My… my Dream… is…”

  _Oh._ “You don’t need to tell me. It’s yours,” Obi-Wan says. “You needn’t-”

 “I want to,” Padmé insists, through another bout of agony and the medicenter droid’s chatter. “I… I want you to kn-know wha-at it was.”

 The past-tense frightens Obi-Wan and he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to lie. He wants to insist that Padmé will survive, that she and her Dream would live on together, and there will be time in the future – years and years of it – for Padmé to decide whether or not to share the Dream she carried.

 “I w-” Obi-Wan nearly chokes trying to get the words out. “I would be honored.”

 There are no markings left on her legs and the shimmer at Padmé’s neckline has dulled. The only glistening over her skin is that of sweat and even that small hint left looks dim and smudged, like a poorly done piece of body art instead of some great gift.

 Obi-Wan leans in to listen to Padmé whisper her words.

 His eyes go wide and he nearly loses his grip on her hand and the Force.

  _Dear Force._

 It isn’t the enormity of the Dream that surprises him, or the subject of it, because both those things were clear enough in the size, brightness, and complexity of the faded markings and the make of Padmé’s personality. It’s a grand Dream… truly _grand…_ and a truly heavy burden to carry.

 Had Padmé introduced herself with the words of her Dream during the Crisis of Naboo, Obi-Wan would not have been surprised in the slightest. Queen Amidala had been private, but also extremely ambitious and more than a little rash. If she had shared the words of her Dream, Obi-Wan only thought likely would have been that he had never heard of such a Dream and Dreamer that suited each other so well, despite the respective sizes. He would not even be surprised if Padmé’s Dream was Realized once already then on Naboo, if it had already established itself, before life moved on and so did she.

 Obi-Wan’s foremost thought now is: _Oh, no wonder you’re fading._

 This particular Dream is… not going to be Realized any time soon. Perhaps this is a pessimistic, miserable assumption, but the Republic was corrupt long before Palpatine declared the rise of a Great Galactic Empire. Evil if not through action, then through apathy.

 “Oh,” Obi-Wan says brokenly, raising his other hand to trace Padmé’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

 Padmé looks back at him, through him, for a long second. Then her focus dissolves into a sob and she turns away, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know which one of them is trembling so fiercely.

 “I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says again, as though that matters anymore.

  _We’ve killed you._


	3. chosen one

Anakin Skywalker was a Dreamer. It had been one of the first things that Obi-Wan Kenobi had learned about the child that his master had found: Anakin Skywalker was a Dreamer. The boy was somewhat obnoxious about it, he remembers thinking arrogantly, as though having a shimmering pattern on his skin and a dangerous burden to manage was something to be terribly proud of.

 The boy had apparently practically introduced himself to Qui-Gon with the words of his Dream. Qui-Gon had seemed to find that arrogance more amusing than anything else. Never mind that Dreams and encouraging them was not an approved way of the Jedi, as Obi-Wan had tried to point out to his bemused and eternally infuriating master.

 Qui-Gon had seemed to be of the opinion that of course the Chosen One would also be a Dreamer.

 At the time, Obi-Wan had said something along the lines that he’d agree with that _if_ the boy’s Dream was something a little more focused on bringing balance to the Force and less on something that seemed intensely personal.

 In hindsight, Obi-Wan can’t quite believe how _young_ he and Anakin both were when Obi-Wan stepped into the shoes of both Qui-Gon Jinn and Shmi Skywalker, master and parent, for Anakin. Force, he was so foolish! Other members of the Jedi Order had assured Obi-Wan that no master truly knew what they were doing with a padawan, and that a padawan was supposed to teach a master as much as the master taught the padawan, but… Obi-Wan really hadn’t known what he was doing.

 The placement of Anakin’s markings had always made his status as a Dreamer difficult to ignore. They were red, sometimes bright like a sun and sometimes dark and thick like blood, and they had curled up Anakin’s collarbone and neck like… like… swirling fire… or an unstable lightsaber blade crawling piece by piece over his skin. They were extremely striking, even before how over the later stages of war, the markings began to lick their way up the entire right side of Anakin face, over the bridge of his nose and his eyes, then over his forehead and up into his hair.

 Anakin’s markings had always had a fierce sort of appearance. Sometimes Obi-Wan had wondered if the Dream was part of the reason why the Jedi Council had initially wanted to reject Anakin and always been so mistrusting of him. The sharpness of the bright fire never seemed to suit the Dream’s words.

 Dreams had always been a source of contention between Anakin and the rest of the Temple – between Anakin and Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, who had been raised in the Temple all his life and to forsake personal goals, had been desperate for his padawan to reign in such a thing and focus on the _greater_ picture of things, as the Order believed was necessary if Jedi were to bring peace and order to the galaxy and achieve true serenity in themselves. Dreams didn’t have to be forsaken… just… managed.

 Anakin had a good Dream, Obi-Wan had thought, perhaps in a patronizing and passing sort of way. A Dream like that was proof of a good heart and a well-meaning mind. It still had to be managed and moved beyond, of course, no matter how good it was.

 Anakin had never been good at letting things go.

 As the years passed, Anakin had stopped speaking of his Dream and his status as a Dreamer, something he had previously born with great pride. Obi-Wan, who had not been raised as a slave and to learn secrecy and resentment like a second language, had managed to mistake _quiet_ and _unseen_ for controlled and overcome. Obi-Wan had left the matter of the Dream to Anakin after that, trusting his padawan to come to him if there was trouble, and Anakin had turned it into one of many secrets to hoard and hide from his new masters instead, protected by an impenetrable mask.

 At best, Anakin’s status as a Dreamer had come up as a joke, usually made by Anakin himself. More than once, Obi-Wan and Anakin had suffered an attack or kidnapping attempt made by someone who saw and recognized the Dream markings and had some sort of bone to pick with a Dreamer.

 Here is one of the many secrets it took Obi-Wan far too long to realize: Both the words that Anakin had once said with pride and the red markings over Anakin’s neck were genuine, but despite what Obi-Wan and all others assumed, they didn’t match.

 Here is the truth: Anakin Skywalker didn’t have a Dream, he had two.


	4. candle

 Padmé lives just long enough to name her children.

  _Luke,_ she names the first child.

  _Leia,_ she names the second.

 And then the glimmer – the last smudge of gold, at the edge of her neckline over where her heart should be – goes out. First it dims, then it fades away entirely, like a paint stain washed away by just a bit of water. It just disappears.

 Obi-Wan can feel the terror in his chest like a living thing.

 “You have twins, Padmé,” he reminds her, as though trying to be joyful will remake this moment as it should have been. “They need you… hang on.”

 “…I can’t,” Padmé says.

 Her voice sounds more like a whimper than anything else and it’s heartbreaking. Padmé’s weakened grip tightens around Obi-Wan’s hand again, for a moment. The medicenter droids zip around, caring for the squalling newborns and doing their utmost to save a dying woman.

 “Save your energy,” Obi-Wan begs.  

 Padmé exhales a last, trembling breath.

 And goes out.


	5. the rule of two

 Of course the Chosen One would be extraordinary even among Dreamers. Tatooine has two suns and so did its child: a binary star system burned over his heart in white and red.

 The cloud of thick Jedi robes and a slave boy’s skill at hiding things his master disapproved of had hidden this secret well. Anakin had always been rash, reckless, and emotional, but he was not unintelligent and it was hard to break the habit of secrecy and survival.

 Besides, if the Jedi feared Anakin for the hopeful words of his first dream, they would never forgive him for the arrogance and ambition of the words that belonged to the red markings he couldn’t hide. So Anakin gave the wrong words to his visible markings, and held the true words and secondary markings close to his chest.

 Perhaps it was easier than it should have been, but Anakin felt justified as the Jedi Order continued to deride the status that he had always taken pride in. He felt justified further as the fiery red markings continued to spread up his face, as well as over his back and down his arms, while the white markings stayed a small cluster of stars over his torso.

 Maybe sometimes Anakin felt a little fearful that the cluster of white stars seemed to be growing smaller as the war went on, while the red markings spread. Maybe that was part of why Anakin had been so desperate to end the fighting – besides his hatred for war, his fear for his wife and children – because every time some new horror happened in the name of war, the red moved further up his face and the white retreated into his chest. By the time Anakin had been desperate and afraid enough to listen to all Sidious had to say, he could have counted the dim speckles of white on one hand.

 They looked more like small burns than a Dream.

 Perhaps there was something funny about the fact that the Dream Anakin had shared was reduced to nearly nothing, while the one he kept secret spread like an infection. But there wasn’t anything funny about it, really. There wasn’t anything funny about any of it, really.

 First Anakin Fell.

 Then Anakin burned. Lost in a haze of rage and terror, Anakin destroyed the Jedi Order, he killed Padmé, and fought Obi-Wan who defeated him and left him to die, and piece by piece Anakin Skywalker was burned away. Anger took to the kindling of wartorn exhaustion and righteous terror, and he burned and burned and burned. There was very little, if anything, of the hopeful boy once named Anakin Skywalker left to be scraped from the ashes of a burning bank on Mustafar.

 According to the rumors that run the length of the Empire, Darth Vader is a monster that simply appeared from the shadows when the Emperor beckoned. Made of metal, swathed in black, wielding a red lightsaber like a Sith Lord of nightmares. Darth Vader slaughtered the Jedi and will wage war on anyone who dares provoke the Emperor’s attention.

 Darth Vader is not the sort of creature that could be a Dreamer. Everyone knows beasts don’t have Dreams. No one bothers to imagine that there might be any sort of markings beneath the dark armor, or that the respirator could manage to say the words in the right tone.

 There are markings, though. The red ones remain, at least, covering Vader’s chest, back, neck, face, and what remains of his arms. The difference, however, is that they’ve paled now and look more like painful, wrinkled sunburns and gleaming scabs than a shimmering red sun’s fire. Despite everything, the red Dream remains like an ache and Vader may one day see it Realized, should he ever find the strength to overthrow Sidious and take his master’s power for himself.

 Perhaps the Jedi were right to fear the red markings, curving fiercely over Anakin’s face.

 Darth Vader’s body underneath and without his armor is a mess. His skin so scarred that if the red markings did not shine still, despite how they’ve dulled greatly over the years, they could easily be mistaken for old wounds or ruined tattoos rather than a Dream. It would take effort to go looking for white stars among the tubes and metal of Vader’s chest, if any are left at all.

 Darth Vader does not bother to look.


	6. new hope I

 Obi-Wan brings Luke and Leia Skywalker to meet Vice-Roy Bail Organa and Master Yoda. Or should they be Luke and Leia Naberrie? Obi-Wan remembers Anakin saying more than once that Skywalker was a slave name, so perhaps Padmé and Anakin would have instead chosen to uphold the Naberrie name, if they could. Maybe it is actually both… or maybe neither.

 Bail takes Leia from Obi-Wan’s arms, so that Obi-Wan can hold Luke more comfortably. Obi-Wan lets out a sigh of relief as Leia leaves his arms and Bail steps away with her – he does not mean to do this, but the intensity of holding both twins at once is… difficult. Even sleeping, even newborn, the children resonate powerfully in the Force, more than doubly so when near each other.

 It is Yoda who states outright that the children must be hidden and kept safe. The Empire… the Emperor… their _father_ should he live… cannot be allowed to find them. It will mean dark things for the fledging Rebellion and fleeing Jedi should such powerful Force-Sensitives be raised or turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan couldn’t bear to leave these beloved children to such a fate.

 It is Bail who suggests that Padmé still appear pregnant when they announce her death. They will have to announce her death, as Padmé was a popular political figure throughout the galaxy, a beloved queen of Naboo, and the Naberries must know what has become of their daughter. She will be missed for many reasons. So let the galaxy mourn both Padmé Amidala Naberrie and her unborn children, he suggests, who died together in an unfortunate accident.

 Obi-Wan asks if Bail is trying to make a martyr of their friend.

 After all, Padmé was a popular political figure throughout the galaxy, one of the founders of Bail Organa and Mon Mothma’s fledging Rebellion. If they tell the galaxy that one of the foremost advocates for peace, democracy, and freedom has died under mysterious circumstances now, they might as well point their fingers towards the Empire and scream assassination. It seems somewhat disrespectful to make political _use_ of Padmé’s death like that, though Obi-Wan does not accuse Bail of this directly.

 Bail seems to hear the accusation anyway, ever the politician as Obi-Wan was the negotiator, and gives Obi-Wan a look that speaks of a man holding back heartbreak. Without words, Bail Organa demands to know how Obi-Wan could ever accuse him of not having the utmost respect and sincere love for their late friend. It is a look that gives a speech and brooks no argument.

 Aloud, Bail points out that if they do not, the Empire might. They can’t put it past Palpatine not to use Padmé’s death for his own ends, as he most surely will. Bail asks if they will have Palpatine point the blame towards the Jedi or the rebellious senators, both “treacherous dangers” of which Padmé was well-known to be in association with.

 They are still at war, after all. They might have lost this battle, but the war that Bail and his allies have been fighting at the Empire continues, even as the Empire finally steps out of the shadows. Padmé might well do the same thing. Obi-Wan must concede his point.

 If Padmé’s markings remained, Obi-Wan thinks Bail might suggest revealing her status as a Dreamer too. Public opinion on Dreamers can vary, but here the truth might make a greater martyr for them and their cause. They could still make the claim, despite the markings being gone, but Bail doesn’t suggest it and neither does Obi-Wan.

 “We must take them somewhere the Sith will not sense their presence,” Obi-Wan says next, trying to imagine where they might be able to hide such Force-Sensitive children.

 If Luke and Leia become as powerful as it seems they might, made worse by the way they resonate with each other, all it will take is one small accident as children, one _awakening,_ and their presences might be felt half the galaxy away. The Jedi Temple had been built to hold and withstand the accidents of younglings, but it… is no longer an option. Anywhere associated with the Force will be under close watch by the Empire, especially as they will surely move to hunt down and exterminate the remaining Jedi.

 “Split up, they should be,” Yoda says.

 Obi-Wan’s shattered chest creaks slightly, under this suggestion, but he knows Yoda is right. One child will be hard enough to hide. Together, it will be so much harder to keep them safe.

 Bail volunteers to take the girl. Though neither he nor Breha will be able to give Leia any training, Obi-Wan must concede that the Alderaan Royal Family has more than enough resources to hide the girl should she never awaken conscious Force abilities. When Leia is older, however, she will have to be trained, and Obi-Wan can only hope Bail and Breha are prepared for that reality.

 Obi-Wan holds Luke close and asks what is to become of him, and Yoda has no immediate suggestion. Instead, the old master asks him where he would take Luke. Obi-Wan must take a moment to think, to follow the whispers of the Force, as the Organas taking Leia eliminates a great many of their remaining allies, including the Naberries.

 A newborn child going to the Naberrie Family would never work, anyway.

 “To his family on Tatooine,” Obi-Wan says finally.

 Yoda makes a curious noise, and Obi-Wan realizes that the old master doesn’t know. He’s not very surprised, really, as he barely knows the story himself. He suspects that he doesn’t know the full story of what transpired on Tatooine just before the Clone Wars began, honestly.

 Shmi Skywalker, before her untimely death, was freed, married a moisture farmer, and took a stepson. Anakin had related as much to Obi-Wan, afterwards, while mourning his mother and swearing never to set foot on his hated homeworld ever again. Anakin didn’t consider the Lars Family to be his family – as far as he had been concerned, he didn’t have a stepfather or stepbrother, and all his family had died with his mother – and, as far as Obi-Wan knows, Anakin had upheld his oath to never return to that distant, scarcely populated planet if he could help it ever since.

 Yoda agrees, especially as Obi-Wan promises to watch over the boy. What Obi-Wan doesn’t say is that if the Lars Family don’t want Anakin Skywalker’s son – they might not, as Tatooine is harsh and Anakin was no son or brother to them – then he will care for the child. He doesn’t know how, precisely, as there is much to do against the Empire and with the fledging Rebellion, but he will.


	7. new hope II

 Bail excuses himself to prepare to leave, as he has a number of responsibilities as Senator, Vice-Roy, and rebel to attend to, especially now that the Empire has risen. He takes Leia with him, his newly adopted daughter, and Luke stirs unhappily as she goes.

 Obi-Wan and Yoda speak a little more but soon part ways for now, agreeing to speak another time in much greater depth, so that Obi-Wan can speak with Bail before the man leaves. Arrangements must be made, after all, for how they are to announce Padmé’s death to her parents and then the galaxy. What is somewhat amusing and inspiring despite the subject, even if Bail could somehow hide his presence in the Force, Obi-Wan could follow the thickening thrum in the air, as the children are brought closer together again.

 “Master Kenobi,” Bail greets, looking up from a datapad as Obi-Wan enters the room. “I’m glad to see you, I was just about to send a droid asking for a word.”

 Obi-Wan glances over at C3-PO and R2-D2. He will have to find somewhere for Anakin and Padmé’s resident droids, both of which were considered free, in a largely droid-hating galaxy that won’t be kind to them on their own. He doesn’t want to take them to Tatooine, which is unfriendly as it is organic beings.

 “Have you read the children’s medical reports?” Bail asks.

 “Not yet,” Obi-Wan answers. “I was informed they were in perfect health. Is something wrong?”

 “They are in perfect health, but… you could say that. Here.”

 Bail sets down the datapad and steps towards Obi-Wan, reaching into the swath of Leia’s blankets to move them aside. The resonating feeling in the Force grows even stronger as Bail comes closer, but Obi-Wan ignores it in favor of looking at the tiny expanse of chest that Bail shows him.

 On the skin above her heart, Leia has a tiny, shimmering mark. It doesn’t have any color and it doesn’t have any shape, and it’s impossible that it has anything resembling words to it yet, but it shimmers in a familiar way that sends a terrible cold feeling through Obi-Wan at the sight of it. That mark is the unmistakable sign of a Dream. Leia is not even an hour old and she is a Dreamer.

 “ _Force,_ ” Obi-Wan says.

 “Exactly.”

 Obi-Wan immediately looks down at the child in his arms and gently moves the blankets aside, his breath catching when he sees an identical mark on Leia’s twin. No color, no shape, no words, but still a Dream, resting with a shimmer over the boy’s heart. Luke is a Dreamer too.

 “I’ve never seen markings on newborns before,” Bail says, “but I’m not very familiar with Dreams or how they appear. I was under the impression that Dreams appeared and developed when people were… older. _Much_ older.”

 “So was I,” Obi-Wan mutters, still staring at Luke.

 “Then I take it that it’s useless to ask if you’ve seen anything like this before.”

 “…I don’t think the galaxy has seen anything like this before,” Obi-Wan answers after a pause. “I’ve heard of Dreams shared between parent and child, very rarely, but… Have two Dreamers ever had children together before?”

 Bail is too much of a politician to stiffen, but he does give Obi-Wan another look. Obi-Wan is less focused on the look and more focused on Bail’s complete lack of surprise.

 “You knew Padmé was a Dreamer?”

 “Yes,” Bail answers. “We debated the subject, several times. Especially when the media was making a fuss over the Hero With No Fear’s markings.”

 Obi-Wan doesn’t think Bail was surprised to learn for certain Padmé and Anakin were together either. If Padmé didn’t tell him, the man is more than intelligent enough to have worked it out on his own. Even willfully blind, Obi-Wan knew Anakin had feelings for Padmé in some fashion or another, though he wouldn’t have guessed that they were married and having children.

 “I wouldn’t know,” Bail says, in answer to Obi-Wan’s previous question on whether or not two Dreamers had ever had children before. “In the history of the galaxy, it has to have happened before, but the history of the galaxy is long and largely lost.” 

 Obi-Wan can’t disagree with this old saying, because it’s true. He was thinking much the same statement at some point today and will be thinking about it again sometime soon. He can’t bear to think about how much knowledge has been lost with the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. If they are very, _very_ fortunate, Palpatine will hoard the Jedi Archives like a trophy rather than immediately destroy them or corrupt them.

 “I would ask that you contact me, when Leia’s Dream takes form,” Obi-Wan says. “I have seen firsthand the… danger that a Dreaming Force-Sensitive can pose, especially consumed by a dangerous Dream. If Leia should carry one of her birth parents’ Dreams…”

 “I will alert you should Leia’s Dream turn out gold or red,” Bail promises.

 That’s a politician’s promise, Obi-Wan notes immediately.

 “Or white,” he says.

 Bail looks up from admiring his new daughter. “White?”

 “Anakin had two Dreams,” Obi-Wan says, perhaps for the first time. He learned the truth of Anakin’s markings very recently, so much so that he can’t remember whether or not he’s even told Master Yoda the horrifying truth of Anakin as a Dreamer.

 For the first time, Bail looks and feels surprised, rather than furious and mournful.

 “Two?” he repeats. “I… wasn’t aware that was possible.”

 “Neither was I,” Obi-Wan answers.

 “He participated in one of our debates on Dreams once,” Bail remembers, after a moment. “I… he told me his when I asked… I never even thought…”

 “No one did.”

 There is a long silence between them.

 “What was the second Dream?” Bail asks, softly, chin high and eyes fixed, unashamed to demand an answer though such a direct and impolite question is considered taboo throughout much of the galaxy. Obi-Wan will always admire the man for this demeanor.

 Obi-Wan clears his throat and says, _“‘I will be the most powerful Jedi to ever live.’”_

 The effect is never the same when spoken by anyone except the Dreamer. They’re just words in the mouths of anyone else, they don’t resonate with any sort of power, and Obi-Wan could have made up anything he liked and said it with the same intensity. He is grateful for this. The surge of darkness, anger, envy, and fear when Anakin finally revealed the truth on Mustafar… Obi-Wan doesn’t think he could bear to hear such words in such a way again.

 There is another long silence between them.

 “Those were the words belonging to the red markings,” Bail says finally, more than intelligent enough to make a few intuitive leaps and come to the hidden conclusion. 

 “Yes.”

 Bail takes a deep breath, then says, “I will alert you to any changes surrounding Leia’s Dream.”

 “Thank you,” Obi-Wan says.

 Bail nods, eyes on Leia again, and takes another deep breath. Then he looks up and meets Obi-Wan’s stare directly, and says, “May the Force be with you, Master Kenobi.”

 “And with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of Part I. On to Part II, in which we watch the twins grow up as Dreamers.


	8. the rebel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like the reiterate that I've never read any Star Wars EU, comics, or even novelizations. I've only ever seen the movies and, as of very recently, some of the Star Wars: Rebels TV show. If something's not canon (in this chapter and any part of this fic), please wave it under the AU/fanfic banner. 
> 
> It turns out I have a lot of feelings over Bail Organa. 
> 
> Thus begins Part II of this fic.

 Vice-Roy Bail Organa is a man of many worries, though he has long since mastered the art of a serene face and self-assured manner, and keeping his secrets deep inside his chest where they cannot be seen. He keeps his chin high and smile genial for the galaxy, and meanwhile keeps his closet of more private or more dangerously public personas very well-organized.

 He worries for the galaxy, for each and every planet stuck under the Empire’s suffocating reign, for each and every planet that may yet suffer the consequences of the Empire’s ever-expanding conquest. He worries for the Senate, for his fellow Senators, for the ideals of law, justice, and democracy that are twisted and stifled and ignored, and for every piece of good he tries despite it seeming as though every step forward turns into two steps back. He worries for the Rebellion, for the fragility of the forming Alliance, for the brave people who choose to risk their lives every day for the cause, and for all the people who were not given the choice on fighting and whether or not to care.

 Bail is a father now and if he thought he was horrified before, during the chaos and corruption of the mostly distant Clone Wars, it is nothing compared to now. He has now fully thrown himself into the grit and harshness of their secret rebellion, now that he has little faith in the “official” paths towards better things that the Empire pretends to offer, and while he worries for every old warrior, for every wayward clone, and every willing or unwilling rebel, he worries most of all for every child made a soldier. No one should ever have to fight a war at all, much less since they were six years old.

 He worries that one day, the Emperor will actually look at him and see straight through him, or worse: if he already knows of the true depths of Bail's rebellious resentment, decide to end the game. He thinks this unlikely, as the Emperor rarely graces anyone with his personal presence, much less a Senator he presumably sees as long since defeated, and Bail was never more than a distant acquaintance of the Emperor when he was still Chancellor Palpatine. They do not interact at all, really, much less directly. At Bail's most noticeable to the Sith Lord, most likely when he was still Bail Antilles, he was a political annoyance rather than an opponent or a genuine threat. Bail worries over one day drawing the Emperor's sincere attention and all the consequences that may entail. 

 Vice-Roy Bail Organa is more than just a Senator and a rebel, he is a _man_ of many worries. Past the courts and the causes, Bail worries for all the things he holds most dear. He worries for Alderaan, for his beloved people and beloved home, for the conservation of his beloved culture and community that the Empire insidiously seeks to end.

 He worries for the wild birds that crow and sing outside the palace windows, for the great forests and flowers that are also found nowhere else in the galaxy, and for the ferries and fishermen that travel the golden-by-sunlight lakes and rivers every morning and evening. He worries for the hollering in the streets and markets, for the laughter and music in their wide halls, for the symbolic colors and storytelling patterns carefully woven into favorite garments, for the traditional braids and heirloom headdresses crowning every head, and for the dancing and lights of their celebratory evenings and grand festivals.

 He worries for his family and his friends, his ancestors and their memories, his wife and his daughter… Bail Organa worries and worries and worries and worries. He does not always dwell on fear – because fear is neither happy nor healthy, nor the way his mother taught him to move forward in life; he’d much rather follow her example and calmly, furiously, carefully do something effective – but he cannot help but always be quietly concerned. It is not a safe or kind galaxy out there to those and all that he dares care about, which is far more than any politician and secret rebel should ever admit, and behind a calm manner and capable mind, Bail is a man of many worries.

 His deepest and most desperate worries, most of all, last but not at all least, surround his daughter, Leia. Oh, _Leia,_ how he adores her. It has been three years since he and Breha welcomed their lost friends’ daughter into their home and Bail loves Leia more dearly than anything and even more with every passing day. He loves her so dearly that it threatens to break his heart.

 Bail worries for his daughter’s heritage, as Breha carefully gives Leia the traditional Alderaan braids and they dress her in the patterns and colors of their houses. But for the paleness of her skin, unlike the more common browns, Leia is the picture of a little Alderaan girl of Organa and Antilles. The colors and patterns, history and heritage, of House Naberrie keep safely far away on Naboo. He and Breha are more than happy to share their own, to gift theirs freely to her, but he can’t help but wonder how things could be, if Leia was allowed to share and know and choose another as well.

 She is three years old now, which is too young to know such secrets, but she will not always be and this worries Bail as well. The conflict shows no signs of ending anytime soon, which most likely means that Leia will grow up surrounded by politics, war, and rebellion. Leia is so small, so soft, so bright, and it breaks Bail’s heart to think that she will face all the terrible things that await out in the wide galaxy. His daughter deserves so much more than to carry on their fight, but it seems that she will be yet another child who is not given the choice on when to care.

 Obi-Wan has warned Bail, more than once over the years, that Leia is very strong in the Force. Should she awaken her abilities, she will have to be trained in them immediately, and even if that does not happen, she will still have to be trained eventually. Bail’s little daughter is destined to be a warrior, it seems, so he worries. Even worse, she’s destined to be a Jedi, and it breaks his heart. 

 Bail worries that the wrong person will talk and provoke curiosity in another wrong person over their daughter. If Leia is discovered by the Empire to be so powerful in the Force, then… Bail has far too many example of the horrors that could happen, which will only be made worse should it also be discovered who Leia’s birth parents are. House Organa of Alderaan is well-prepared and capable of concealing the secret and protecting their own, but Bail cannot help but worry anyway. The Empire’s influence is reaching farther and further every day, and they are not at all above taking hostages, corrupting ideologies, and spreading dangerous propaganda. Leia is in danger enough without the threat of the Force hanging over their necks like a blade.

 If the dangers of Leia’s heritage aren’t enough as it is, there is also the fact that Bail’s three-year-old daughter is a Dreamer and has been since the day she was born.  

 The Empire hasn’t treated outed Dreamers well to say the least, given that beacons of hope and ambition are powerful threats to a totalitarian regime, and Dreamers have mostly gone into hiding. Bail knows and worries for several among his rebels and the Alliance, but they are a tight-lipped and untrusting few these days, largely bitter over their personal hardships and having the Empire alternatingly treat Dreams as a dangerous fashion or falsehood by terrorists.  

 Leia is three years old and doesn’t really understand the concept of Dreams yet, only that she must never show anyone the shimmering patch of skin over her heart. The patch is still colorless, still formless, and of course has no words yet, but it will not always be and Bail worries.

 Bail worries that Leia will be burdened with one of her birth parents dreams, the suffocating impossibility of Padme’s, the painful white of the late Anakin Skywalker, or the infamous red of the Hero With No Fear. The galaxy is a wide place, but it’s only been three years, and people still remember the Clone Wars’ most infamous hero and the fiery red Dream that spiraled up his face.

 If Leia must be a Dreamer, Bail hopes that the Force will grant her a different path from the dangers of her birth parents’. Let Leia be given a Dream all her own. A _safe_ one. He knows that Dreams are hardly ever _safe_ or easy, but he still hopes. Bail still worries, because even if Leia has been raised the child of Breha and Bail Organa of Alderaan and knows nothing of her birth parents or their Dreams… Dreams are strange things, Padmé and Anakin were remarkable people, and never has Bail heard of a child being born to two Dreamers, one of whom had two dreams.

 He worries.

 He hopes.

 Vice-Roy Bail Organa of Alderaan is a worn man, a clever man, and a man wise to the hard and harsh ways of the galaxy. Bail knows politics, corruption, secrecy, lies, and courts like the back of his hand – like his mother before him, like his beloved wife by his side who is his queen. He is a Senator, a rebel, a tired and desperate protector of justice, of freedom, and of all the refugees and soldiers under his careful, secret command. He has an extensive closet of private and public personas that he wears through every level of this ongoing war, all of them composed calm and confident, and underneath all of them, he worries for all those and all that he holds dear.

 Bail Organa is not a Dreamer, but he has never needed to be. Missing marks on his skin and marked words in his heart has never stopped him from dreaming and doing what needs to be done – something he, Padmé, and Mon Mothma unreservedly agreed upon during their debates, and something he hopes to teach his daughter despite everything. Bail is not a Dreamer, but he is a man made of hope.

 For good things.

 For better things.

 For Leia.  


	9. golden

 No one should ever have to fight a war at all, much less since they were six years old… or, Force forbid, ever _younger._ But that ideal does not stop the conflict or give the Empire any sort of pause to the horrors of their conquest, and many are not given the choice of whether or not to care, or even when to care. Bail is a protector and commander of many soldiers and rebels who really should be children, teenagers, or young adults exploring life, and it breaks his heart every single day.

 Vice-Roy Bail Organa wears a calm face and a composed manner, but he has anger in him, held close to his chest. He has righteous fury inherited from his mother before him, which sparks dangerous at any sort of injustice, though Bail is well-practiced at appearing cool and keeping the flames inside. He has an example to uphold, which demands he take his anger and his fear, and calmly, furiously, carefully do something effective with it.

 One of the horrors that never fails to infuriate the flame, tended sharply in his chest, is what the war and Empire are doing to the youth of the galaxy. He has met too many children made orphans, teenagers made soldiers, and young adults made embittered veterans before they had a chance to live. He cannot save them all no matter how he tries and worries for them – he cultures rage for them.

 Bail is privileged enough to live a life far from battlefields. He and Breha have accepted the risks of being Rebellion leaders and the dangers of Imperial politics, but they are still wealthy and still relatively safe in their everyday lives. They fear assassination and sabotage and shouts of treason, of course, but can protect themselves against those things. They do not have to fear bomb raids, starvation, and invasion – not yet, at least. Leia can run laughing through lush gardens, dance in the lantern-lit streets of Alderaan’s capital, and never worry about tripping over a mine or into a firefight.

 But even the children who are fortunate enough to be kept away from open conflict are not spared the creeping touch of war. Bail worries for them too and cultures rage for all the other parents who must figure out to explain to their children what the Empire is and what it does, to explain the threat that hangs over their lives should they speak their mind or stand out too far, and to explain why they remain safe while hundreds of worlds and billions of people suffer under the Empire’s fist.

 To explain that there is a strict, unforgiving, fatal limit to their very freedom of being.

 Leia is only five years old and she is a clever child. Truthfully, Leia is more than clever, she is dangerously intelligent, observant, and intuitive. Breha says that pause before she speaks sometimes is all him, a little girl trying to imitate her father’s composed speech, while Bail counters that the furrow between Leia’s brows when she concentrates is all Breha. Neither Bail nor Breha breathes a word about how the glint in her eyes sometimes is all a dead man and woman, but they know and realize that there was very little chance Leia would not be exceptional.

 Leia is only five years old and her favorite thing is asking questions – uncomfortable questions, more often than not, because it is the serious, complex things that she can’t figure out on her own.

 Leia overheard someone – her parents, palace employees, Alderaan politicians and public servants – discussing the Empire’s recent deposing of a planet’s democratically elected leader in favor of a chosen tyrant, and wants to know why they’d get rid of someone the people picked and who was doing _good_ things. That doesn’t make any sense! That’s silly! Why would they do something like that?

 Leia was watching an old history documentary and wants to know why the Empire says such bad things about non-humans and clones and droids. Bail and Breha have raised her to remember that no matter what a person looks like, no one sentient being is inherently better than another. So why do Imperial news anchors and videos keep saying mean things about people they’ve never met?

 Leia wants to know why a planet demanding environmental preservation instead of industrial advancement wasn’t listened to. Leia wants to know why a girl she knows was suddenly sent to live on the Outer Rim after a medical test. Leia wants to know what crimes a planet committed that the Empire has decided everybody on it has to be punished. Leia wants to know why the Empire is causing droughts and famine, refuses to help against plague and pirates, and taking money and resources from poor people who need those things to survive.

 Leia wants to know why the world is unfair and Bail must figure out how to tell her. He and Breha will not lie to her about these things, though they will not disclose the hideous details. So Bail and Breha must go a step further than telling Leia that bad people exist and bad things happen sometimes, and roughly explain in the least awful way possible to a five year old girl why these terrible things are happening. It isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, an easy thing to do.

 Leia takes it about as well as can be expected, considering how they have raised her and that she is five years old. She’s confused and angry, but mostly confused. Bail and Breha know that this explanation won’t be over for a long time, as little Leia tries again and again to make sense of an unreasonable galaxy and find good intentions in an unmerciful Empire, and prepare themselves for answering the questions she’ll have as well as they’re able.

 Bail worries for their daughter, because she is so very young and so very small, but Breha reminds him that Leia is _their_ daughter. She is clever and they will help her, and there is nothing to worry about. Well… there is much to worry about, but they are capable and so is she.

 It is easy to forget, however, that Leia is a little more than just their beloved daughter. Princess Leia Organa is Alderaan through and through, from the twin braids down her back to Bail’s mother necklace around her throat, from the quick pace to her speech to the quick pace of traditional steps as she dances through the gardens. Alderaan is deceptively peaceful and the threat of the Empire looms most clearly, so it is dreadfully easy to forget the assuredly distant threats of Leia’s inheritance – both the deep and inescapable burdens of the Force and the shimmering patch of skin over her heart.

 Just it seems that Leia is beginning to have a simple, working understanding of the galaxy’s situation, after weeks upon months of questions and news incidents and confused tantrums, Bail is given something clear to worry about. At first, it is an entirely unremarkable and to be treasured morning on planet with his family, so he does not suspect a thing.

 Outside the window of their apartments, there are birds chittering and singing in the gardens and far beyond, and boats moving up and down the golden dawn-lit lakes and rivers. The sights and sounds bring a sense of peace to Bail’s heart as he rises for the day. As does the sight of Breha rolling over in bed, pulling a pillow over her head to shut it all out, grumbling lowly about spacers and their twisted hours. Bail kisses her shoulder in apology for being fully awake at this hour and moves to get properly dressed, he has plans to take his family boating later today.

 As soon as he’s stepped into the parlor of their apartments, the door to the main hall opens. Bail is confused at first, but then he sees the small hands pushing it open, which are immediately followed by the rest of his daughter. Leia is still in her nightgown, her long hair loose and mussed down her back, and she leaves the door open as her eyes light up and she rushes towards him.

 “Papa!”

 “My heart!” Bail answers, scooping her up into his arms. “Your mama is still sleeping, so please be a little quieter.” He steps away from the door to the bedroom, towards the balcony attached to the parlor. “What star are you catching, being up so early?”

 “Sorry, Papa,” Leia says – more automatically than genuinely, Bail suspects. “It changed!”

 “What changed?”

 Leia is already pulling down the collar of her nightgown and Bail’s feels a chill go down his spine. Where there was once a formless, colorless, shimmering patch over Leia’s heart, there is now a small splash of gold. Tiny, delicate markings set into skin that are still faint, still taking form, but are best described as molten gold in color and intricate jewelry in shape.

 Bail’s seen markings like that before. It is only years of experience that keep his terror and heartbreaking recognition off his face, and years more to keep it out of his voice.

 “Oh,” he says.

 “I’ve been itching for days and today I woke up like this!” Leia explains. “Is it supposed to look like this?”

 If the galaxy had any sense of fairness, _no._ If the galaxy had any sense of fairness, Bail’s beloved little girl would not be burdened with any Dream at all, much less a near-impossible one that is as big as the galaxy itself. To see this Dream Realized is at once everything Bail hopes for Leia and everything he never wants her to have to face. If Leia had to be a Dreamer, why did it have to appear so _young?_

  _She’s only five,_ Bail wants to spit at whatever unseen court has allowed this. _How dare you._

 If the galaxy has any sense of fairness, Leia has something _different._ Similar in color and shape, but _different_ in words and content _._ A Dream all her own instead of one that Bail never thought he would see again after Padmé.

 Padmé’s golden Dream suits the destiny and inheritance that awaits Leia so painfully well that Bail should have known this was coming. With how he and Breha had raised Leia, they should have realized what the outlook and ambitions they would pass along to their daughter could mean for her Dream. While Bail worried, he had still been comforted by the thought that Leia was so young and that they had _time_ before her inheritance demanded its due.

 “Dreams are supposed to look however they look like,” Bail assures her. “Yours is beautiful. Do you know any of the words that go with it yet?”

 Leia’s brows furrow as she concentrates.

 “… **Peace** …” she says finally, and her expression turns triumphant.

 Bail feels the opposite. All his worries are all coming true.

 “… **Peace** …” Leia repeats, as if tasting the hum and thunder of the word in her mouth.

 Her voice thrums with the suffocating Dream, the double-toned sound buzzing through the air and prickling over skin, at once heart-swelling and uncomfortable. Saying a word of her Dream, Leia’s voice sounds entirely unlike that of a five-year-old girl, sounding instead grown, melodic, forceful, echoed by unseen others in a whispering choir of ghosts.

 Leia clearly likes the sound of it, by how her expression is nearly as bright as the glimmering gold underneath her nightgown. She likes it very much, if how she repeats the word yet again, smiling with the delight of this new discovery, is any indication.

 Bail can’t tell if his heart is swelling with hope or with fear. He’s sure it’s both.

 “There’s more,” Leia says, frowning. “But I can’t hear them.”

 “That’s alright,” Bail says.

 He hopes they’ll be different, but he worries that he already knows them. Bail is almost tempted to say Padmé’s words to Leia now to see if the phrase sparks something in his daughter, but he doesn’t know if he can bear that just yet. He wants want to force anything on her. He needs to speak to Breha, to figure out a clear and reasonable path forward, to uphold his promises, or at least take five minutes to calm himself and remember how to breathe before he faces more of his daughter’s inheritance and destiny.

 Sometimes, not often but sometimes, Bail resents Padmé Naberrie and Anakin Skywalker. Bail is only a man, after all, and there are even many good reasons for this, despite the good they did and how close Bail was to them, reasons and legacies which have nothing to do with Leia. The good reasons, however, often have little to do with how sometimes it is all Bail can do to contain his jealousy. 

 “We’ll figure them out,” he reassures her. “There’s time.”


	10. words in the heart

 Once upon a time there was a young girl who was born and raised on Tatooine. She was born and raised a slave, like her mother before her, and her mother’s mother before them both, who was born to her great-grandmother come to Tatooine when she was just a girl herself – with no family, and no freedom, to her name.

 The slave name of Whitesun had been given to her grandmother in the absence of any other family name to give, had been passed to her mother, and now it belonged to her. The young girl was the last of her line now, after sickness had taken her mother years ago, and she bore the common, precious name with the furious pride of someone who had little else to call their own. 

 It was a common saying across Tatooine that the only thing slaves owned were stories, and it was about as true as the truth ever got. Names were considered stories in their circles, too, which made that particular saying even truer. Every name had a story behind it, and every name had a story ahead of it; and threaded through the name of Whitesun was her story, her mother’s story, her mother’s mother’s story before them, all the way to the legends that were their namesake.

 Everything could be taken from a slave. There was not a single physical thing that they could call their own, not even their own flesh and blood and body, but… on the inside… that inside thing that possessed bone and hair and muscle… that was nearly untouchable. Not entirely untouchable, because everything could be taken with or without freedom,  but it would take an unspeakable, nightmarish, impossible horror indeed to take a name after it had been given and accepted. Or to take a story after it had been told and heard. Or, in some rare cases, a Dream after it had been born and known.

 Words were easy to carry and easy to hide, invisible in practice if not weightless in spirit, the perfect thing for any unfree being to own and keep and treasure. Words that lived in the heart could weather any storm. Words that were shared among many hearts could weather any starfall.

 Words, words, words! Stories and names!

 Was there ever anything so everything as words?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?”  
> \- Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Grey_
> 
> "WORDS IN THE HEART CANNOT BE TAKEN."  
> \- Terry Pratchett, _Feet of Clay_
> 
> If you haven't read it, I highly recommend Sir Terry's _Feet of Clay_. I cannot recommend it highly enough, actually. 
> 
> "The only thing slaves owned were stories" is a throwback to the opening line of one of my other SW fics, [_The Story of Finn_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5594782/chapters/12891928), which was: "The only thing Stormtroopers own are stories." They're statement made in much the same spirit.


	11. the white sun woman I

 The Whitesun girl was in her early teens when someone first shared with her the story of the Grounded Skywalker. She had lost her mother, just a few seasons ago, and she would have been alone in all the galaxy if not for her fellows in the household, who were distant at best and kind when they could afford it. The only other company was the stories that they shared amongst each other when they could afford the kindness.

 Skywalker was a name not entirely uncommon throughout the galaxy. It was a name from somewhere far away and long ago, many said, presumed to have been adopted by slaves that took to the myths of beings that walked through skies and among stars. What unfree being, after all, didn’t dream of skies and walking boundless into the endless horizon?

 The name of Skywalker, however, was a more uncommon one on Tatooine. It tasted a little too strongly of freedom for some folk – that and whatever dangers waited in the dark of space. Especially with the stories surrounding it. It was hard to put a finger on, really, but if one asked anyone who’d thought about taking the name and pressed them long enough about it, and that person stopped for a long moment and truly examined themselves, they might admit that there was something daunting about bearing a name like that. If one had ever met one of the rare Skywalkers that passed through Tatooine, perhaps they could understand that there was something indescribably different about them, something that ran deep even they seemed simple.

 The Whitesun girl had heard stories of a Skywalker on Tatooine before. Half the planet at least had heard the story of Anakin Skywalker, the human slave boy, who’d flown and won the Boonta Eve Classic of 32. _It was just a podrace,_ some said, but they didn’t understand that this had been _the_ podrace – the best collection of racers across a dozen systems on one of the most dangerous tracks out there – and it had been won by a young boy… a human… a slave. _You had to be there,_ others answered, awed with memory. _You had to see him_ fly. _Ain’t ever seen_ anyone _fly like that. Like they were born to it._

 They said he was a Dreamer too, young Anakin Skywalker. He’d had the marks and the words as clear as the suns against the sky, said those who’d known, who’d seen the boy once upon the time. Anakin Skywalker had a Dream that he would win his freedom, they said, and it came true. Anakin flew and won, and then flew away to freedom and a better life far out there in the stars. No one knew what exactly had become of him, but there were a thousand stories. He was a pilot in most of them, a soldier or a smuggler, and sometimes even a ferryman bringing slaves to their freedom.

 Once, she’d heard that he now carried Dreams across the galaxy to give them to their Dreamers.

 The Whitesun girl didn’t believe most of these stories and didn’t have much interest in the story of Anakin Skywalker besides. She believed he existed and had done what they said he had – she believed he’d been one of those once-in-a-lifetime podracers – but beyond that, Anakin Skywalker was a hero for little children who wanted to play make-believe while driving old carts and rusted speeders. Anakin Skywalker was a story for children who could believe that they might be able to do the same thing if they were lucky and skilled enough. The Whitesun girl was too old for that sort of silly hoping, and she had never flown or driven anything in her life.

 The story of the Grounded Skywalker, however, was different. It wasn’t a children’s bedtime story, full of action and adventure and hope, spread all over Tatooine to the point that she was near sick of it. This was a story she was told in one of the darker parts of the evening, after all the masters of the house had drifted off into a satiated sleep and nearly all the slaves and servants were abed as well, by a delivery man while she was washing dishes and scrubbing ovens with another cook. This was a quiet story that held the shudder of a warning.

 “Stories say the Grounded Skywalker is headed your way,” the delivery man told the other cook, a broad old grandmother who took the orphaned Whitesun girl under her wing when she could.

 He’d said the warning quietly, after closing the door he’d supposed to be leaving through and checking around the dimly lit kitchen for signs of someone other than them three slaves. Gran Sandrunner paused what she was doing, then carefully put the pot she’d been cleaning to the side, and looked at the middle-aged man standing all nervous in their doorway.

 “Is that so?” she said, just as quiet and far grimmer.

 “What’s the Grounded Skywalker?” asked the Whitesun girl.

 She didn’t like not knowing things, especially anything that might affect her, and she was eager to take any excuse to stop scrubbing for a moment. Her arms felt like they were about to fall off, still thick with bruises from an “accident” with one of the masters earlier in the week.  

 Gran Sandrunner and the delivery man turned to look at her. For a moment, it seemed like they might not tell her, but perhaps something in the steadiness of her stare and the swollen violet rimming her eyes convinced them. Perhaps she looked pathetic enough to take pity on.

 Gran sighed, made sure that all the doors and windows were closed, and then told her that the Grounded Skywalker was a person.

 The story went that the mother of Anakin Skywalker, as soon as she had seen her son had freed and made safe, finally sought her own freedom and stole herself away under the guise of being sold. Unlike her starbound son, Mother Skywalker hadn’t vanished into the void, but stayed on Tatooine and now sought to rescue all slaves from their masters. She travelled all over the desert and had rescued many slaves over the past five years; she was wise, they said, and clever and powerful; and some had even dared to say she had a Dream.

 “And she’s coming this way?” the Whitesun girl said.

 “So they’re saying,” the delivery man answered, tipping his hat. “Thought I’d pass on the word.”

 “We’ll be ready,” Gran Sandrunner said, and saw the messenger out.

 Once the door was closed behind the delivery man, the Whitesun girl looked up at old, broad Gran Sandrunner and asked skeptically, “Was that story real or it just making things up?”

 It sounded like the sort of good-slaves-were-rescued ratshit legend that people made up, something that she should furiously disbelieve. Something in way it been told, however, with the shudder of a warning, in an empty kitchen in the dead of night, made her doubt her doubting.

 “Oh, she’s real, alright, but only time’ll tell if she’s coming to for us or just moving by to rescue some others in greater need,” Gran said, picking up her pot again. “Now less talking, more scrubbing, girl. And don’t you go spreading any stories about, or I’ll leave you to sleep in the sand.”

 The Whitesun girl went back to scrubbing the oven, raw knuckles objecting, and went angrily looking for holes in the story she’d just been told. One woman couldn’t do all they said she had, surely someone would have caught her. Where would the slaves she’d freed even run to? Maybe the Grounded Skywalker wasn’t any sort of rescuer, maybe she was one of those lunatics who thought starving in the desert as a free being was better than life as a slave. Maybe she was a threat to turn away at the door, lest she “rescue” them to a life on the run with nothing but their names. They could do that sort of "rescuing" themselves if they were silly enough. 

 A few days passed and there was no change in the house. The Whitesun girl worked and didn’t talk, and it looked like Gran Sandrunner worked and didn’t talk either. The rest of the household worked on, apparently or actually oblivious to the delivered warning. The masters didn’t seem to notice anything coming their way either, but then again, they hardly noticed anything outside of spice and arena sports and the other sorts of things that went on at Jabba and business partners’ parties.

 By the end of the week, the Whitesun girl was ready to think that the delivery man had either been lying or that the Grounded Skywalker had passed them by to “rescue” someone else. She was furious. If she wasn’t afraid to get her ears boxed in, she’d give Gran Sandrunner a piece of her mind.

 Another week passed and none of them had seen hide nor hair of this Grounded Skywalker. The delivery man had been back twice since his first warning, and every time had nothing new to tell Gran. The eavesdropping Whitesun girl wanted to walk up to him and ask if he yelled sandstorm every time a breeze blew, but Gran Sandrunner kept sending her off to scrub pots instead. _Less talking and more scrubbing, girl, and you watch your nose._

 Two more weeks passed and the Whitesun girl was sure that the storm had passed them by. The day after that monthly mark, while sent to dust some of the solar panels, the girl made furious and unrealistic plans to be the first to the door when the delivery man came next, so she could ask where he’d even gotten his story. The girl was so caught up in her daydreaming that she very nearly tripped over the person sleeping outside their delivery entrance. She thought they were a large rock at first by the thick, hooded brown robes they were wrapped in from head to toe.

 The Whitesun girl froze in fright, uncertain as to how to deal with the situation. They let strangers and travelers sleep in the kitchen often enough, fed them and sheltered them as much as they could, but she was fourteen, small, and hadn’t had good experiences with one-on-one encounters with strangers. She only had a long brush with her, which would snap if she dared hit anyone with it. All her fury didn’t do her much protection compared to the broad shoulders of Gran Sandrunner. She didn’t want another accident.

 She wasn’t supposed to go in the front entrance, but better a known risk than an unknown one. The girl made to slink away while the stranger slept. If she talked nice and smiled pretty, she might be able to get away with sneaking in the front with minimal consequences.

 “…Wait,” came a voice.

 The girl almost ran for it, but the voice made her pause instead. It was a quiet and feminine voice, a little hoarse, and there was nothing urgent or demanding to it. On the edge of fleeing, the girl turned to see the robes get to their feet, dust some sand off a small build, and rise to an unimpressive height. Underneath the thick hood, the girl could see the silhouette of a half a face, and realized that the stranger was a human woman only a few inches taller than she was.

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the stranger said gently. “I was waiting for someone to come along and I’m afraid I must have fallen asleep.”

 “You could have just knocked,” the girl said, holding her long brush tightly at the ready.

 “I didn’t mind waiting. I’m much better at conversations face to face.”

 “Strange words for someone who won’t show their face.”

 “Oh, I’m sorry,” the stranger said, and reached up to pull back their hood.

 If the girl had been expecting some deformed monstrosity or the like, that was not what she got. The stranger lowered their hood to reveal the face of a middle-aged human woman, with tanned skin that was wrinkled and deeply weathered, with thick brown hair tied in a bun at the back of her head, and with a handsome, gentle face and a kind smile that went all the way to her eyes. She was incredibly ordinary, like any other slave mother or working freewoman across Tatooine, except…

 Except for the white marks scattered up her neck and across the underside and edges of her broad jaw. In the dawn sunlight, they glowed like the hundreds of stars they resembled. When the stranger smiled, the galaxy set into her skin stretched and pressed with her wrinkles, and gleamed a little brighter.

 The girl nearly staggered back. She had never seen marks like that before, but she had heard about them. She hadn’t heard about these marks in particular before, but she could guess who their owner might be, appearing on the doorstep with all the fanfare of a stray bit of sand. Suddenly the girl was all the more conscious of the motley marks on her face and over her body, still-fading or newish bruises that ached fiercely and looked hideous, which seemed shameful in comparison to the stars set into this Dreamer woman’s humble, bemused, smiling face.

 “My name is Shmi Skywalker,” the stranger said, “I’m here to rescue you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If I have my way, this'll go all the way through the series to TFA.


End file.
